How to Survive
by Spectral Scribe
Summary: When Dean Winchester comes down with a mysterious illness, his brother Sam brings him to Dr. House and co. They race to figure out what’s killing him, but not before getting a terrifying glimpse of a world beyond their own. Supernatural Crossover.
1. Chapter 1

**How to Survive**

A/N: _House/Supernatural Crossover. Spoilers include Season 2 of Supernatural and nothing really for House (but takes place sometime before S4, we're still rollin' with the old crew)._

Disclaimer: _I do not own or lay claim to anything related to Supernatural or House. But oh, how I wish I did..._

Summary: _When Dean comes down with a mysterious illness, Sam unwittingly hands him over to Dr. House—a man they don't trust and who doesn't trust them. Meanwhile, the doctors race to figure out what's killing Dean and end up digging a little too deep into the lives of the Winchesters, getting a frightening glimpse of a world beyond their own._

* * *

It started with a cheeseburger.

One minute Dean was happily chowing down on a double bacon burger with extra onions—grease dripping out the back and onto the motel table, Sam looking on in disgust and throwing a wad of napkins at his brother to catch the falling grease—and the next, he was on the floor, coughing bits of half-chewed meat into the snot green carpet, skin suddenly pale and slicked with a thin sheen of sweat. When drops of blood splattered onto the carpet to join the food, Sam's brain sprang into panic mode and he grabbed his brother under the arms, hauled him to the parking lot, and threw him into the passenger's seat of the Impala.

By the time they pulled into the hospital parking lot, Dean was shivering; his skin was almost gray, his eyes glossy and unfocused, his hairline damp with sweat. The blood around his lips, which Sam, in his haste, hadn't bothered to wipe off, made him look like some kind of rabid animal.

Dean could walk but only just. He leaned heavily against Sam, who practically dragged him through the front doors and into the emergency waiting room…

Which was packed.

There was a man holding a red-stained rag to his left shoulder, his bald head sweating profusely; a pregnant woman with a screaming toddler (whether the screaming was from annoyance or pain could not be determined); a teenage girl seated on a plastic chair, leaning over her knees, hands pressed firmly to her face; a man in a suit and tie vomiting earnestly into a basin; and a family of six, all of whom were crowded around the mother, who was wailing and holding her hand, signifying that she might have chopped off a finger while preparing dinner.

And a whole slew of people with varying degrees of trauma. Busy night for the ER.

Sam shook his head. This would take hours.

"Come on, Dean," he muttered, walking up to a frazzled looking nurse and putting on a rigid smile. "Excuse me, can you point me in the direction of the clinic?"

The woman looked up; there were gray streaks in her bushy brown hair, and she wore cat-eye glasses that magnified her eyes enough to make her look like an insect. She pointed him down the hall, told him to follow the signs, and went back to her work.

The waiting room of the clinic was nearly empty. Sam sat Dean down on a hard plastic chair, the latter looking utterly relieved at no longer having to carry his own weight, and let his head drop back against the wall as he closed his eyes. He was still shivering.

Sam almost ignored it when the fake name he'd given was called; he did a double take, mentally rechecked the name on the insurance card he'd snagged from their stash of fakes, and maneuvered Dean into the empty room.

They waited ten minutes before the door opened and a growl of a voice greeted them with, "William Gibbons?" There was a pause as a tall, older man limped into the room. Well, limped wasn't quite the word—there was something graceful and loping in his gait, and he pushed the door closed with the cane in his right hand before finally looking up from his clipboard and setting two probing blue eyes first on Dean, then on Sam. "Do your friends call you Billy?"

The man smirked, but Sam didn't follow. He stared. Billy?

His mouth quirked, taking the smugness out of his smirk and turning it to disappointment. "Not a ZZ Top fan, then."

Sam caught himself before he rolled his eyes. Leave it to Dean to put William "Billy" Gibbons on an insurance card. That snapped him out of his worried stupor. He noticed that the man was not wearing a white lab coat and, trying to rein in his frustration, he asked, "Are you a doctor?"

"Of course I'm a doctor," the man replied condescendingly, waving the chart in his left hand around in the air like an award. "I have a clipboard and everything."

Sam continued to stare, nonplussed. Dean continued to sit where he was, either not interested or not conscious enough to follow the conversation.

The man—doctor—whatever, rolled his eyes. "I'm Doctor House. I'm guessing he's—" he glanced toward Dean, eyes gleaming critically— "my patient, Billy. Which makes you… Frank Beard?"

Sam's brain was too busy playing _Dean dying hospital panic_ on repeat to come up with a sufficient lie, so he sputtered the truth: "Sam. His brother."

"Well, Sam-his-brother Gibbons, since it looks like ZZ over there is out of commission, why don't you tell me how you stumbled upon the clinic of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital?"

Sam glanced quickly over at Dean, and sure enough, he looked as if he were dozing. Worry shot back, full force, covering his annoyance with this so-called doctor.

"We were just sitting down to dinner when he passed out for a second, and started coughing up blood. It came on really suddenly. He was fine all day."

"No sign of illness?"

"Not even the sniffles."

Doctor House nodded, then pierced the unassuming Dean with his bright eyes. "Hey!" he shouted. Dean started, looking around in confusion. "What drugs are you on?"

Dean blinked slowly at him. "Huh?"

"Drugs. You know, E. Special K. Coke. Dope. Red Devils. Dyno. What are you taking?"

Silence from the defendant. Breathing heavily, Dean shook his head and gave Sam a pained look. The latter replied for him: "He's not taking any drugs."

"That you know of," Dr. House retorted, eyes only flickering to Sam for a brief, scornful moment. "Billy. Would you be more inclined to tell the truth if Sam left the room?"

Dean chuckled deep in his throat, working up enough spit to speak. "Sam knows I've done drugs before, why would I hide it now if I was doin' anything? I'm not. Get over it. Next question."

Dr. House waited a moment as though deciding whether or not to give it a rest or pursue the idea that Dean was a pathological liar (which wouldn't actually have been far from the truth but, in this case, wasn't important). Then he tucked the clipboard under his right arm and used his free hand to fish a penlight out of his pocket. Limping—loping—_strutting_, really, over to where Dean was seated, he flashed the light in his eyes.

"Pupils are dilated," he muttered to no one.

Sam watched as he dropped the light back in his pocket and squinted at Dean. "Hey," he shouted into his face once more as Dean looked about to nod off again. "Any nausea?"

Dean nodded.

"Headache?"

Dean nodded.

"Fever?"

Dean cracked open an eye. "You're the doctor."

House rolled his eyes, produced a thermometer seemingly from the air, and stuck it in Dean's ear. After a moment it beeped. "101.3. I'd say that's a yes, wouldn't you?" The doctor seemed very good at juggling multiple things with the extra burden of his cane, for suddenly he had a small bottle in his hand and was preparing to pop something white and oblong into his mouth.

"What's that?" Sam asked before he could stop himself.

"Candy. Want some?" House held the pill out for Sam to take before it disappeared into his mouth, the bottle back in his pocket. Sam let it go. His frustration was nearing the end of its short tether.

"What's wrong with my brother?"

"His body seems to be fighting off… something."

Dean snorted weakly, not opening his eyes. "That's specific." Then he leaned over, coughed twice into his hand, and smeared blood on his jeans when he wiped off his palm. Sam glanced back and forth between his brother and the unruffled doctor, a good cocktail of impatience, worry, and anger growing hot in the pit of his stomach.

"So you don't know what's wrong with him?"

"Not yet," House replied.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm admitting him. It's something doctors sometimes do. If we just sent them all away sick we'd run out of business."

Sam forced himself to take a deep breath and release it slowly. "Are there any other hospitals in the area?"

House eyed him, and Sam got the uncomfortable feeling that he could see right through him. "There's Princeton General, but if we don't know what's wrong with him, they won't either."

Dean was shaking his head, but he only got Sam's attention with he softly groaned his name. "No, Sam. No hospital. Just take me back, I'll be fine."

Sam's eyes danced between Dean and House. The latter shrugged. "Or, you'll vomit up the rest of your blood supply, your fever will boil your brain, and you'll die."

Sam nodded at Dr. House. "Admit him."

"Goodie."

* * *

"Patient history," Foreman grumbled, tossing the papers onto the table in the conference room in obvious annoyance. "It was like pulling teeth, but I think I got everything of importance."

"Remind me, isn't there something I usually say here, about lies and everybody?" House retorted, limping caneless to the whiteboard and frowning at the list of symptoms.

"This guy's a piece of work," Foreman continued to the others, ignoring House's comment. "He's got a whole slew of scars and past injuries; was once electrocuted, been shot, stabbed, _burned_—and half of this I had to get from his brother because he's being… uncooperative. Nothing seems like it could be connected, though. It was like… poof, and he's sick."

Palpably irritated, Foreman threw himself into a chair at the table and leaned back. Chase gave Foreman a commiserating smile, and Cameron continued to watch House, waiting for him to shout out some miraculous diagnosis. But he had his back to them, still frowning at the whiteboard.

"Infection?"

Cameron piped up here: "White count was up, but not enough to solidify a diagnosis."

"It could be a virus," Chase suggested with a shrug. "Meningitis, Encephalitis, West Nile. Typical symptoms."

"Yeah, except the blood-spewing," House replied, turning from the board. "What was he eating before he keeled over?"

"You expect me to ask him what he was having for dinner?" Foreman asked incredulously. When House continued waiting for an answer, he sighed. "Double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions, chili fries, and a chocolate milkshake from Carol's Diner."

"Obviously he cares about his arteries as much as he cares about personal space with the nurses," Chase commented with a grin; when no one else seemed amused, he let it drop off his face and looked down at the table.

"Chase." The sound of House's voice made Chase's head snap up. "Go to Carol's Diner, order that exact same thing, and bring it back."

"You think it was something in the food?" Cameron asked doubtfully.

"No, I'm just hungry," House mocked. "Cameron, go talk to the patient, see if you can get anything else out of our tight-lipped friend. Foreman, go console the brother. They're staying at a motel; find out which one. And when you do, go have a look in their room."

They all stared at him. House flapped both hands towards the door. "Shoo."

And, like Pavlovian dogs, they did.

* * *

Dean felt like utter crap.

He was lying in a hospital bed in one of those horribly revealing gowns, first of all; there was nothing on the TV but daytime soaps, which he hated; Sam was fussing over him like a mother hen, constantly smoothing his blanket and fluffing his pillow, then pacing around the room until Dean had to close his eyes; and, to top it all off, he really did feel like crap. He was ice-cold and then burning up; his stomach roiled angrily and wouldn't let him eat (which was, in itself, cruel and unusual punishment for Dean); his head pounded; he felt exhausted; and whenever he coughed, it came out bloody.

"Sam," he rasped, voice a low grumble in his ears. "Sam!"

Sam stopped pacing and was at his side in an instant, still fidgeting.

"You know we gotta get outta here, don'tcha?"

"What?" Sam spluttered.

Dean took a breath, willing himself not to cough or throw up. When he didn't he continued. "Longer we stay here, bigger chance they'll find out the insurance's fake, the names are fake, and we're legally dead. 'S a bad idea."

Sam looked strained. He also looked tired, worried, and hyped up on caffeine. But when he looked at Dean, there was fire in his eyes. "So, what? You wanna pull a Houdini act on your doctors, waltz out of here coughing blood, and go back to the motel to get sicker?" His voice was rising, in both pitch and volume, and Dean was just waiting for the moment when Sam would snap, throw his arms wide to show his massive wingspan, and go off on a rant that would attract the nurses just outside.

"Sam—"

"Dean—"

The door opened, and they both whipped their heads around to see who was entering, and if anyone would catch that Sam had just called 'William Gibbons' by a different name. It was the pretty doctor, with the long brown hair and the sympathetic smile. Dr. Cameron.

"Hi," she greeted, smile slipping slightly when she saw the expressions on their faces. "Um… if I'm not interrupting, would it be all right if I talked to William alone?"

Sam hesitated, glanced at Dean, and then vanished through the door. Dean gathered up his energy to put on a smile. Cameron checked his vitals, then she sat down at the chair next to his bed.

"Mr. Gibbons—"

"Please, call me D… Will." Dean mentally berated himself for almost slipping his real name. He wasn't thinking clearly enough to lie easily. _Well,_ he thought, _I must be sick_.

"Will. Look, I know you've told us multiple times—"

Dean smirked. "Your boss still thinks I'm lying about something." Cameron gave a gentle nod. "First of all, can I say that he's a bastard?" Cameron smiled. She really was pretty. He wondered what she was like in… whoops, mind wandering again. "I'm not on drugs. You may think I'm a liar, and that's fine, but I don't want to die here. And I'm not on drugs."

She opened her mouth as if to say something and then shut it. Dean watched her, wishing that he didn't look so disgusting here, unwashed, covered in sweat, his chest starting to burn uncomfortably.

"I believe you," she said at last. "And House may be… a bastard, but he's a good doctor, and a great diagnostician. We'll find out what's wrong with you. But, just to be on the safe side, we're going to run a tox screen."

"And maybe once I'm better, me and you can get together sometime…" Dean suggested, raising his eyebrows.

Cameron laughed, but he could see a blush rise on her cheeks. "Maybe."

As soon as she left the room, he pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart, trying to quell the building pain and thinking—_knowing_—that it couldn't be this again, it couldn't be his heart, the reaper had fixed him…

* * *

Chase sat down at the half-empty diner, feeling awkward, and glanced briefly at the menu. But he already knew what he was going to order—ridiculous as the idea was—and settled for looking around the restaurant for a waiter instead. The place was… quaint. He hadn't even known that there were any diners like this in the Princeton area.

A plump, middle-aged woman arrived with a bright red dye job and fake nails. "Hiya sweetie, what can I get you?"

Chase smiled indulgently at her. "I'll have a double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions, chili fries, and a chocolate milkshake. And can I get that all in a to-go container?"

The woman's smile faltered. She hadn't written the order down on her pad of paper. "That's funny. Do you know a real tall guy with floppy brown hair?"

Chase thought for a moment before his mind settled on an image of Sam Gibbons. The first time he'd met him, he'd had to look up quite a distance to see his face and had found himself quite intimidated. "I might, why?"

"Oh nothing, it's just he was here yesterday, ordered that same thing and a to-go container. Just funny when that happens, sort of like déjà-vu." Then she wrote down the order and smiled at Chase. "I'll bring that right out for you."

He nodded and watched her go, mentally diagnosing her with high cholesterol and possibly type II diabetes. He idly watched the few other people in the small diner as he waited, wondering how Cameron and Foreman were faring with Sam and William. If House had come up with a diagnosis yet. If it was at all possible that something in the food had triggered the symptoms, and it if was at all possible that the same something would still be in the food the next day. At last the rotund waitress returned with a bag and the check. As she set it down on the table, she leaned over, grabbed the back of his neck, and pressed her mouth against his. At first there was nothing, but then her tongue parted his lips and there was warmth in his mouth. He didn't pull away, too shocked to move, and she deepened the kiss.

Someone in the diner watched them curiously, but then they both pulled away, and the patron assumed they must be a couple.

Chase paid the bill, picked up his bag, and walked out of the diner.

* * *

"Why do you need to know what motel we're staying at?" Sam asked cagily, and Foreman knew instantly that he wasn't going to get anywhere. Sam was too guarded, his eyes dark and mysterious, wary of strangers.

"Just for the record, so we know where you are in case of—"

"In case of what? Look, I'm staying here, at the hospital, and I'm not leaving without my brother, so why does it matter?"

Foreman counted to five in his head, wanting to lash out at the guy yet a bit anxious of his height, breadth, and unconditional devotion to his brother. He was starting to see why House didn't like dealing with patients. Both of the Gibbons brothers were a pain in the ass.

He shook his head, realizing that he wasn't going to get anywhere. "I guess it doesn't. Forget I brought it up."

But when he informed House of his failure, he got a response he hadn't been expecting.

"Good."

"Good?"

House was sitting in his office, feet propped up on his desk, yo-yo dangling from his right hand. "That means he's obviously hiding something in his room that he doesn't want us to find. These guys are smart. They're covering their tracks. There's something they don't want us to know."

Foreman shoved his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and rolled his eyes. "Great. But we still don't know where they're staying, so how does that help us?"

"Oh, innocent youth," House sighed sarcastically. "Time to return to your corrupt roots. Dig deep inside and I know you can find that inner criminal. Follow him to the motel."

"He said he wasn't leaving," Foreman objected.

House scoffed. "Well, now he knows we're onto him. Ergo, he's going to go back to his room soon to hide any incriminating evidence in case you do find out where he's staying." House glanced at his watch. "Get Cameron and go before he's too far to catch up to."

So, having no reason not to, Foreman went.

* * *

Dean didn't know where Sam was, but he did know that he had a rare moment of peace and solitude. So, taking advantage of this, he squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his head against the pillow, and reassessed the various pains in his body. There had been a slow build of pressure near his heart for a while, but only now was it starting to get unbearable. He dug his fingers into the skin of his chest, trying to douse the burning with his nails instead of water. His hair was sticking to his forehead, flattened with sweat and grease. He felt horrible.

And he only felt worse when the door opened and the clack of a cane on the floor, followed by an uneven swagger, met his ears.

"Oh, fuck me," he grumbled under his breath and opened his eyes.

Dr. House was standing in the middle of his room, leaning on his cane, eyeing him cockily with those critical blue eyes.

"You and your brother are liars."

Dean was too tired to roll his eyes. "You plannin' on beating me with that cane until I tell you want you wanna hear?"

"Nah, last time I tried that I had a lot of trouble convincing the board it was self defense. I don't know why they thought a bedridden guy with cancer couldn't take on a cripple, but they seemed to think that I attacked first. Got me landed with extra clinic hours, which, incidentally, landed me with you."

"You're the worst doctor I've ever met."

"I didn't realize you were Billy Gibbons, M.D."

Dean and House glared at one another for a long moment.

"Do you get off on harassing your patients?" Dean asked coldly.

"Yes I do. In fact, sometimes I lie awake at night, coming up with new and creative ways to let them know that they're all morons."

"Why do you bother, then?" Dean spat, head starting to pound. "You don't care if I live or die."

House was silent for a moment. "You're right; but I'd rather you live. See, if you die, then I have no excuse to find out what killed you. And I'm a curious guy. Usually it's easier to find out what's killing people while they're still alive. So, in all practicality, I'd rather you stayed alive just a little while longer. Think you can you manage that?"

Dean liked a lot of people. He wasn't necessarily a people person, but he often found things to like in others.

He couldn't find anything in House.

"Long as you manage not to kill me."

House seemed to think about it for a moment before he tapped his cane on the floor.

"Deal."

* * *

Sure enough, by the time Foreman grabbed Cameron on his way out of the conference room, Sam was already making his way to the parking lot. Foreman was almost annoyed that House had been right, as usual, but he decided to ignore that for now in favor of following the classic black Chevy Impala—which had probably twelve different kinds of environmental hazards, judging by the growl of the engine and the black exhaust smoke that belched forth from it—out of the parking lot and down the street.

Cameron was really annoying to have in the car. She was what one might call a backseat driver, and that irritated Foreman to no end.

"Watch out for that truck," she said. "Oh, get through before it turns red or we'll lose him." "Use your turn signal when you change lanes." "Speed limit's 35, we don't want to get pulled over." "Don't follow right behind him or he'll notice."

"Cameron, will you please just let me drive?" he asked at last, exasperated.

She shut up after that, but her eyes kept lighting up whenever she obviously had something to point out about his driving skills. Finally they pulled into the Super 8 parking lot and watched from a distance as Sam got out of the car.

Foreman looked over at Cameron and caught her eye. "You wanna get out and go see what number he's walking over to, so we know what room to come back to?"

"Why don't you?"

"If he looks out and recognizes me, we're busted."

"So? He'd recognize me, too."

"He just talked to me half an hour ago. And I think I'm a little more conspicuous."

"Conspicuous? Are you pulling the race card? Really? Who are you, House?"

"Hey," Foreman snapped, breaking them out of their argument, looking around. "Where did he go?"

Suddenly there was a sharp tap at his window, and Foreman managed to stop himself from jumping out of his seat as he looked to his left and saw Sam standing outside their car, a seriously pissed look on his normally guarded face. Foreman rolled down the window.

"Are you following me?"

Before Foreman could open his mouth and further aggravate their patient's brother, Cameron broke in. "Look, we usually ask our patients to let us look around their houses to see if there's anything there that might have caused their symptoms. We just wanted to have a look around, that's all."

"What, were you going to wait 'til I left and then break in? What kind of doctors are you?" Sam demanded. Then he seemed to regain himself, realize his situation, and he took a breath. "Well, you might as well come in, as long as you're here."

Foreman blinked, surprised; he glanced over at a smug Cameron. Then he realized that Sam was probably only inviting them in because he'd realized that if he turned them away they would just come back some other time, enjoying the luxury of snooping around without him supervising. They got out of the car and followed him to his room, Foreman momentarily wary of stepping through the threshold for fear that Sam would bash them both over the head and stuff their bodies in the trunk of his car.

But his fears were unfounded. The motel room was a little messy but otherwise normal. There was a pile of napkins on the table (it looked as though he had already come back at some point and thrown out the food); the beds were unmade; there were a couple of duffel bags lying on the floor. Otherwise, it was a pretty typical motel room: ugly brown walls, some paintings of sailboats, cheap carpet. There were several flecks of dried blood on the floor near the table, the only sign of what had happened the previous night.

"It's not much, but you can look around."

They did; they looked under the beds, in the (questionably sanitary) bathroom, in the empty closet. Sam tidied up as they looked, tossing the wad of napkins in the garbage and tucking one of the duffel bags under a bed.

Cameron threw an apologetic smile to Sam, who was watching them with a look that said he was dying to say, 'I told you so.' But before he got the chance, his cell phone rang, and he flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.

"Yeah?" A pause. "Hey, Bobby. No, just, hold on a sec—" He turned to the two doctors. "Are we done here? Motel's got bad reception," he explained, motioning towards the door. Foreman nodded and led Cameron out the door and off to the side; they watched as Sam emerged, locked the door behind him, and started walking in the opposite direction. "I'm here… You didn't?... I don't know, Bobby, they can't find anything, I don't know what's wrong…"

Soon he was out of earshot. Cameron had started to walk towards the car, looking defeated, but Foreman grabbed her by the shoulder and motioned for her to come back.

"What? There was nothing there," she argued petulantly.

"Didn't you see how he was protecting that one bag, making sure we didn't go near it? The one he hid under the bed when he thought I wasn't looking?" He couldn't help the grin on his face.

"What, you want to go pick the lock? What if it takes too long, he gets off the phone and comes back?"

Foreman shook his head. "We'll be quick." Reaching into his pocket, he produced a key and dangled it in front of her. "Spare room key. Swiped it from the bedside table."

A wry smile quirked up on Cameron's face. "Foreman the motel thief. Would you say that's a step up or a step down from cars?"

"Really? You're gonna play that card? Who are you, House?"

Deciding not to waste any more time, the two snuck back to the room. Foreman stuck the key in the lock, gave a silent cheer of victory when it turned, and stepped into the room. They hurried to the bed, grabbed the bag, and unzipped it.

"Holy…" Cameron's voice trailed off as they gaped at the contents of the bag.

Suddenly Foreman realized his worry that these two were serial killers had been right on the money.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _Thanks for the reviews! I'm so glad people are enjoying this. I was worried that there wouldn't be much of a crossover audience. __Lisette__: I totally agree with your comment about Dean and House. Making them butt heads is fun because they have so much in common. And writing this has made me realize that I definitely have a type when it comes to fictional characters that I love… Anyway, I apologize for my utter lack of medical knowledge, and here's the next installment. There will be three total._

* * *

Wilson grinned over his sandwich. He probably knew that House was waiting for him to open his bag of chips so he could snag a few… which was probably exactly why he hadn't opened them yet.

"You find my patient's deteriorating health amusing? I didn't know you were into black humor. Working in oncology must be a regular crack-up for you," House quipped, taking a bite of his Ruben.

"It's not that. It's just… well, it must be frustrating, having to treat a patient that doesn't take any of your crap… someone as stubborn as you." Wilson grinned again into his sandwich, clearly enjoying House's annoyance with the so-called Billy Gibbons. "Obviously you don't enjoy people in general, but you seem to have taken a particular disliking to this one. Though all the nurses seem quite fond of him."

"Aw, are they not paying any attention to you?" House retorted, shoving the rest of his sandwich into his mouth so that it puffed out his cheeks and took him several minutes to chew and swallow.

Wilson finally went for his bag of chips, now that House's mouth was full, and muttered, "Charming."

Before House could grab a chip, a series of beeps sounded over the low hum of chatter in the cafeteria. House glanced down at his pager, saw that it was Foreman, and said, "Looks like the kiddies are back from their field trip. Let's go see if they brought back any souvenirs."

Not that he would admit it to anyone, least of all the prone-to-be-smug Wilson, House had been anxious for Foreman and Cameron to return. The Gibbons were a curious pair. Of course, everyone seemed perpetually eager to point out to House how much he needed the puzzle, but he wouldn't deny it. He wanted to know the truth behind the Gibbons brothers. Maybe that would lead him to the truth of Billy's disease.

Wilson ate his chips as they walked, and House managed to capture one with his free hand as they came up to the elevator. Lifting his cane, he used the rubber tip to press the button before popping the chip into his mouth, smiling proudly at his victory. Wilson rolled his eyes and kept his dwindling bag close his chest, hoarding it from future attacks.

When they reached their floor, Wilson told House to let him know what the verdict was on his illegal search, and House continued to the conference room, where all three of his fellows were currently waiting in various states of anticipation. Chase was lounging with his legs stretched out and his hands behind his head, the bag from the diner on the table in front of him. Cameron was hunched over the table, gazing worriedly into its surface. Foreman was pacing, hands in his pockets.

"Hello, class! Did everyone do their homework?" House announced as he strode through the door, startling Cameron out of her reverie. "Who wants to go first—Chase? Did you get my lunch?"

Chase sat up and removed the contents of the bag. There were two to-go containers that he popped open, one containing a burger, the other chili fries; there was also a Styrofoam cup and a plastic straw. The stench of grease curled through the air. "I got napkins too, if you want," he offered sarcastically.

"Great. How about you two?"

Foreman stopped pacing and put his palms flat on the table, leaning over. "I think we should call the cops."

"Seeing as cops are the best friends of doctors who break into motel rooms," House countered, "Why?"

"Because we opened one of their duffel bags…" He hesitated, shaking his head.

"And what?" House spat impatiently. "The dirty laundry attacked you?"

"It was filled with guns," Cameron shot back, her voice sharp with nerves. "All kinds. Knives. I think there was even a flamethrower in there."

"Yeah, it was like they raided Serial Killers R Us," Foreman added.

House actually found himself momentarily at a loss for words. He didn't really know what he'd been expecting them to find, but it certainly hadn't been an all-you-can-shoot buffet. He limped over to the whiteboard, schooling the shock on his face with his back to the others. "Chase," he said at last, "Go test the food—poison, bad meat, whatever—anything that could induce any of the symptoms."

"My pleasure," Chase grumbled, stuffing the food back into the bag and vanishing from the room.

"What are we going to do?" Cameron asked.

House turned around, seeing Cameron's wide, lost eyes and Foreman's arms crossed over his stomach. "Well, we're not going to call the cops and say that you illegally broke into the patient's motel room and illegally snooped around, thereby illegally finding a grab-bag of weapons." He took a breath, thoughts colliding like fireworks in his head. He had the niggling desire to go ask Wilson's opinion yet found himself unable to do so. "First let's treat him. We'll deal with it later."

"And if we can't figure out what's wrong with him? What happens when his brother shows up to blow our heads off in revenge for letting him die?" Cameron snapped.

"Use your womanly seduction to convince him to aim for Foreman."

House couldn't help but feel a little better at the incredulous look on Cameron's face. At the very least, her current level of disbelief and disgust with him was still something that he had control over.

* * *

The nurse was blushing. Even lying in a hospital bed, an IV dripping fluids into his arm, skin sickly pale and wet with sweat, eyes dull and glazed with dark bags under them, hair greasy and unwashed, Dean still had it. And if he hadn't been suppressing the burn at his heart and the ache in his head and various muscles throughout his body, he would have taken a moment to relish in that.

"Are you _sure_ you're not a nurse by day, supermodel by night? Because that would make a pretty kickass superhero. They could call you Wonder-Wendy," Dean rasped with a thin grin. The red hue in Nurse Wendy's cheeks deepened, her attempts to tuck away her broad smile futile, and when she leaned over to check his IV he got a gratuitous view of her cleavage. Normally Dean would appreciate this to no end, but at the moment, he would take restful sleep over a hot nurse in a second. Which he didn't want to think too much about, because that _definitely_ meant he was sick.

"Use your call button if you need anything," Wendy told him before vanishing from the room. At the same moment of her departure, Sam walked in, eyeing her as she stepped past him into the corridor. Dean couldn't help but notice that Sam looked a bit like a kicked puppy, and he threw himself into the chair beside the bed as soon as he entered.

He looked ready to go into full-on sulk mode, so Dean asked, "What?"

Sam shook his head. "Bobby can't find anything."

"What, about me? Dude, I'm sick. An exorcism ritual ain't gonna work. That's like callin' a plumber for an electrical malfunction," Dean rasped.

"I thought it might be something supernatural," Sam shot back, clearly irritated by Dean's reaction. "I mean, the doctors can't figure out what's wrong with you. I thought it might be something in our area of expertise."

"What, the monster malady? Some kind of ghostly flu? C'mon Sam, what were you expecting?" There was a tickle at the back of his throat, and Dean tried not to cough. But it was a good distraction from the burning over his heart, and even though he knew it _couldn't_ be his heart again, he didn't know how long he could swallow the building dread.

When he realized that he was fighting a losing battle, Dean raised his palm to his mouth and coughed—but as his stomach muscles clenched with the expulsion of air, something turned over inside of him, and before he knew it he was leaning over the side of the bed while violent heaves forced blood and bile from his mouth. His head swam, reality a dim and distant concept; his throat was hot and raw; his stomach muscles were achy and tired; and when sight swam back to him, there was scarlet liquid dripping from his mouth and onto the pristine white sheet, a startling contrast, and his chest was on fire.

The room was empty at first, but his mind didn't really register that until the door flew open and Drs. Foreman and Cameron hurried in, shortly followed by Sam at the rear. They bustled around, there was a flurry of activity, and Dean couldn't make his brain focus on any one thing with the building pain, he was too disoriented, and he grabbed at his chest with his left hand—which was not covered in blood from his coughing and vomiting—and pressed it over his heart.

"Sam," he choked while trying to force out some sound, any sound. He almost laughed at the fact that, after trying to say something to communicate the pain he was in, all his brain could come up with was 'Sam.' He couldn't tell if his brother was looking at him or not, but he needed to convey that it was his heart, that whatever the reaper had taken away had somehow returned… but all he managed to do was pull the top of his gown down a little over his chest in his haste to scrabble at his skin before a new sensation took over, heat flooding his body, his limbs jerking as his head swam in and out of reality.

Somewhere in the distance he heard a female voice say stiffly, "He's seizing."

Somewhere in the distance there was warmth entering his arm, numbness spreading, and blackness.

It might have been seconds before he cracked his eyes open, now desperately trying to stay awake to make sure Sam had understood what he was trying to say—not that he could say it now, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth, everything fuzzy (but the pain muted).

"Please, I know it sounds crazy, but—just—trust me," Sam was pleading.

The two young doctors were standing by the door. "This is ridiculous. It doesn't make any sense," said a deep voice. Foreman.

House was in the room. There was a long silence. Then two low, sharp words.

"Do it."

* * *

When Dean came to, he could hear people talking quietly—a man with a melodramatic voice and an extremely earnest woman.

"I can't do it. The procedure… it's too risky."

"So you're going to let my fiancée die? With our history, I thought… Wait, that's it, isn't it? You still love me and now you're going to let Derek die so you can have me all to yourself!"

Dean thought perhaps he might still be dreaming, unless his room had suddenly become occupied by the most overdramatic doctors in the world. He cracked open his eyes, blinking the blurriness away, and saw soft blue light emanating from the TV, which explained the source of the crappy dialogue. Afternoon soaps. And this one seemed to involve a nurse in oddly slimming scrubs monologuing dramatically to a generically hunky doctor who looked like he'd be more at ease surfing than holding a stethoscope. Wondering why his television was on when he'd been too—well, unconscious—to enjoy it, he searched around the room until he saw the figure sitting on the chair, hunched over slightly, his chin resting on the top of a cane as his bright blue eyes gazed intently at the screen.

He was about to pretend that he was still asleep when House spoke without looking up.

"Uh-oh, now Derek is either going to die or find out the truth about Nathan and Cindy's sordid affair. Either way, it's a bad day to be Derek."

As the fuzzy edges of sleep faded away, Dean assessed himself. Headache, check, nausea, check, fever, check. Awesome. "You actually watch that crap?"

"Shut up until the commercial."

Dean snorted. "Like you need to hear every bit of dialogue to keep up with the snail pace of these ridiculous plots. I can already tell you what's gonna happen. That Derek guy's gonna wake up from his coma, or whatever's wrong with him, find out about his fiancée's affair, they're gonna fight until his condition deteriorates, and then she'll come runnin' back to him and they'll make up in time for a teary goodbye before the doctor miraculously comes up with a cure for his terminal disease. After which Cindy and the good doc will hop in the sack and start the cycle all over again."

He thought maybe House would beat him with his cane now for insulting his show, but instead he simply grinned and clicked off the TV. "Impressive. You got it all right from ten seconds of dialogue."

"How do you know that's what's really gonna happen?"

"I read the message boards," House replied, straightening his right leg out gingerly and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small bottle of pills, shook one into his hand, and popped it into his mouth. Then he glanced over at Dean and ordered sternly, "Don't stare at crippled people taking pills. It's not nice."

"Yes sir," Dean mumbled before he could stop himself—which then made him desperately want to rewind the last humiliating minute or so and come back with an equally snide remark. But House had, for a moment, sounded so like his father with the random order that it had been an involuntary reaction like breathing after coming up from being underwater.

House eyed him for a moment, and Dean thought that he was going to make fun of him until Dean was forced to strangle the man with his IV line. Instead, he asked, "Your father a military man?"

Dean gave a short nod. "Marines."

House's eyebrows shot up, wrinkling his forehead. "No kidding? Mine too," he offered, bouncing the rubber tip of his cane on the floor.

Silence fell. Dean found himself getting annoyed. "So, why are you here? Came to try and bust the truth outta me? Still think I'm lyin' about something? Didn't you run your little drug test?"

House nodded. "Tox screen came back clean. No drugs."

Dean snorted. "I think this is the part where I say, 'I told you so.'"

"Yes, clearly we're all incompetent baboons walking around with stethoscopes. If you're under the assumption that we're not going to be able to help you, and you so obviously don't want to be here, why don't you just leave?" House challenged, placing both hands firmly on the top of his cane and watching him with cold, calculating eyes.

"Oh, I will. Once I finish diggin' my tunnel outta the basement of this hospital. See, you're right, I am a liar. I gave you a fake name; my real name's Steve McQueen," Dean replied, trying to hold eye contact as his chest started burning again.

House smirked. Dean couldn't tell if he was amused or annoyed. "Well, you're in good company. That's the name of my pet rat."

And now he couldn't tell if the doctor was mocking him or being serious. He settled for asking incredulously, for he hadn't thought this sadistic bastard had been capable of having a pet-anything, "You have a pet rat?" House didn't respond. Dean didn't know what he was waiting for, so he continued, "Speaking of pets, where's Sam?"

Bright blue eyes lit up as though this was what House had been waiting for. "I don't know. But you wouldn't believe the bizarre request he made of my employees. Or, maybe you would. I was hoping you could shed some light."

Dean waited while House told him what his brother had asked them to do, not quite comprehending at first. He pressed his hand to his chest to quell the burning when it clicked in his brain, and he realized what his hand was hovering over.

"I'll explain everything if you do me a favor… well, a couple of favors."

House frowned and pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane and taking a step towards the bed. "I'm already doing your brother a favor. I want an explanation. Now."

Dean glared at him, summoning the hardest, most frightening look he could. Where most people relented under such a stare, House simply matched it, his unshaven face setting into a stone-like mask, his eyes two pools of dispassionate ice. They stayed like that for almost a minute before they both broke away, speaking simultaneously.

"Son of a bitch."

"Stubborn jackass."

Then they stayed like that for a few seconds, each looking in a different direction, stuck at a stalemate. Finally, grudgingly, House spat out, "Fine. But you're explaining everything once this is all done, or I put rat poison in your IV and blame it on Dr. Foreman. Now what do you want?"

Dean took his hand away from his chest and made a mental checklist. "You guys have a church here, right?"

* * *

Chase, after consuming the double bacon cheeseburger and chili fries in the relative solitude of the morgue, tossed the to-go containers in the nearest garbage can and checked his watch. Enough time had passed. He let himself out, momentarily eyeing the shape under the white sheet lying on a nearby table, and started walking down the hallway.

He was just passing the hospital chapel when he saw a familiar figure approaching it and grinned.

* * *

"I don't believe it," Cameron exclaimed, eye pressed against the microscope.

"I know," Foreman grumbled. "This is ridiculous. What was House thinking, catering to that lunatic like that?"

Cameron didn't remove her eye from the lens of the microscope. "No, I mean—I don't believe it, he was _right_."

"What?" Foreman snapped.

Finally Cameron lifted her face away, gazing at Foreman with confused and curious eyes. "Sam was right. There's sulfur in Will's blood."

"Let me see that." Foreman grabbed the microscope from her, adjusted the slide, and looked. Sure enough, there it was, plain as day. Sulfur.

"What could it mean?" Cameron asked, sounding dazed.

Foreman started ticking off possibilities. "Could be Nephritis. Leukemia. Uremia. Intestinal obstruction, maybe."

"Yeah, all raise the sulfur level in the blood, but this much? It's like he injected himself with it straight, the amount is way off the charts…" Cameron trailed off, frowning, thinking. "Besides, we already ruled out kidney failure. His kidneys are fine. And no cancer, either."

Foreman looked back down at the blood sample on the slide, wishing he had a better answer. It didn't make any sense. All of his medical knowledge was swimming around in his brain; he came up with solutions only to instantly shoot them back down based on evidence, logic, and the tests they'd already performed. Nothing seemed to fit.

"Well," he sighed at last, "I guess we better tell House."

* * *

"Sam," called a familiar voice with an Australian accent. Sam stopped mid-stride, the chapel just ahead of him, and looked up to see Dr. Chase approaching.

"Is everything okay with… Will?" Sam asked, almost stumbling over the name.

"Oh, Will's fine. I was just wondering if I could talk to you for a moment?" Chase quickly pulled his mouth into an amiable smile. Sam tried not to look too anxious as he shrugged, and Chase took him by the arm and said, "Let's walk."

They walked in silence, Sam lamenting the growing distance between him and the chapel, and finally they found an empty room with the shades pulled. Chase led him inside. At first Sam was hesitant, but then he realized that Chase might have some important news that he didn't want to say in public. What if Dean…?

"Listen, Sam, he's got some kind of virus. Frankly, with the amount of toxins in his blood, he should be dead by now. And I know you've got some idea what's causing all this," Chase began, folding his arms carefully over his white lab coat. "I don't care if it sounds absolutely crazy, but you have to tell me why he's fighting it off like this. If he was reacting like he should, Dean would have very different symptoms right now, but he doesn't. Tell me, Sam, why is that?"

Sam's brain was rattling in confusion, trying to put together what the doctor was telling him. Much as he tried to separate his own ideas with whatever Chase was telling him, he kept getting stuck, hung up on his words. But how did Chase know his suspicions? That would mean he knew a lot more about things that he shouldn't. Which would mean…

Hold on.

Back up.

Slowly, realization dawning on him, Sam asked, "Did you just call my brother Dean?"

Chase rolled his eyes, but then a grin slid onto his face. "Guess the game's up, huh? C'mon, Sam, don't be a bitch about this. Tell me why he isn't reacting to the virus. You know the one, you know how he's supposed to react, just like those people in Rivergrove. He was supposed to go nuts, turn into an animal. But he didn't. Why?"

Sam shook his head, realizing that Chase was standing between him and the door. He was trapped. "How do you…?"

Chase rolled his eyes and snorted. "You want answers? Fine. We'll swap." He blinked, and the second his eyes reopened, they were charcoal pools of ink. "Okay, you've got my little secret. Now you. Why is Dean immune?"

Nearly recoiling at the sudden revelation, Sam blinked, got his suddenly pounding heart under control, realized that he was completely unarmed, and tried to reassess the situation. He was stuck in an empty hospital room with a demon impersonating his brother's doctor.

Yeah, things didn't look too good for him right now.

"What, you want more answers first?" Chase demanded, voice growing hard and icy. Then a small smirk curled his lips, souring his face like spoiled milk, an eerie contrast to the black eyes. "You always did want to fill your brain with more than it could hold, Sammy. Here's what we're going to do about this demon virus. The last one was to test your immunity, as your big giant brain probably already figured out. This one was my version. I put the virus in Dean's burger—yes, I was the fat waitress—and waited to have my fun, see if he would kill you, if you would kill him; who knows? It's a fun game. Winchester torture is the new Grand Theft Auto, you know."

Sam listened intently while simultaneously trying to come up with a way to get around Chase and out the door, get help, get to the chapel, get something that would help him. For now, he just needed the demon to keep talking.

But he seemed done.

"Your turn, Sam. I want the truth. Now. Or the well-meaning but sadly incompetent Dr. Chase might accidentally slip 'William Gibbons' something lethal before he can get better. In the meantime, the hospital staff will have the trouble of cleaning your intestines off this nice clean floor, and I don't think you really want that, do you?" Chase asked, voice smug and condescending yet with the slightest bit of impatience. It was that tiny emotion that gave Sam his leverage, gave him some iota of control over the situation.

"Just one question, and I'll tell you why Dean's still Dean," Sam spoke carefully.

Chase frowned, looking as though he were pondering the meaning of life. Then he shook his head. "No. Sorry. Time's up. You tell me, or both of you die."

"That's actually what I was going to ask," Sam cut in. "Why aren't we dead yet? Who are you working for?"

Chase stepped forward menacingly, black eyes flashing. "You're alive because I hadn't gotten bored yet playing with you two. But too bad. I'm bored now. And I work for no one but myself. You killed my father and sent me to Hell twice. Least I can do is make you as miserable as I am."

Sam felt his face harden. "Meg?"

"No," Chase replied, voice and grin seeping with smugness. "I'm Dr. Robert Chase. And you're…" He paused for dramatic effect. "…about to be very, very sorry."

* * *

House was on his way down the hall, taking long strides with the aid of his cane, when two pairs of footsteps caught him with him, and he found himself flanked on either side by two of his fellows. He didn't have to ask about their findings; Cameron jumped in right away.

"The brother was right. He's got sulfur in his blood. Lots of it," she announced at his side.

House stopped and turned around, gazing at each of them in turn as he processed this new information. He wouldn't admit it, but he was relieved, on top of his curiosity and confusion, that Sam had been right. That gave slightly more credibility to the both of them, and made him feel slightly less ludicrous in his tenuous alliance with the patient.

"What do you think it means?" Cameron asked when he didn't say anything.

House shrugged. "Dunno. Foreman, you got any ideas?"

He looked like he wanted to spout something brilliant, but instead he just pursed his lips and shook his head with a shrug. "Nothing that could fully explain this and his other symptoms."

"Right. Or, as your people say, for shizzle." He was about to turn around and continue walking down the hall when he hesitated and held up the index finger of his left hand. "You know that chapel we've got around here somewhere?" Cameron nodded. Foreman raised his eyebrows. "They've got that birdbath of holy water there, right?" When he got exactly the same reactions out of them, he nodded. "Great."

He continued towards the chapel, leaving Foreman and Cameron behind to gossip about his current mental state, an empty syringe tapping against the rattling bottle of Vicodin in his pocket.

* * *

Sam felt himself flying backwards, and he hit the wall with a loud thud, head cracking against the surface. A sharp pain stabbed through his skull, leaving him dazed.

He tried to pull himself away, but he was glued. "So, what is this? You part of some demon army? Working on germ warfare?"

"No," Chase replied lazily, walking closer. He idly surveyed the room before his black eyes returned to Sam. "I already told you. This is revenge. Sorry you're not important enough to be on the hit-list of some big-time higher-up," Chase apologized without remorse. He smiled at Sam, blinking his eyes so that they returned to their normal hue. "But at least I get to have my fun."

He continued approaching until he stood about a foot in front of Sam, looking up at him with a confident, spiteful, cocky smile. Raising his hand, Chase drew Sam's head away from the wall.

"Night night."

Then, as Chase shoved his hand forward through the empty air, Sam felt an invisible force slam his head back against the wall, and everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _Thanks to everyone who read this, and extra-special bow-down-to-you thanks the size of House's ego to those who replied. Feedback is worth its weight in gold. Anyway, it's been a fun little challenge for me, this first foray into both House fanfic and crossover fanfic, and I hope that everyone enjoyed reading it!_

* * *

Sam blinked open blurry eyes and the world tilted on its axis, spinning, a swirl of out-of-focus color and blinding light.

He snapped his eyes shut.

His brain was fuzzy, as though it had been stuffed with cotton. His mouth felt the same—dry and foul-tasting. Something was drumming a deep, pounding beat onto his throbbing skull. Slowly he peeled his eyelids back from his gummy eyes again, trying to focus on something but finding that the world was still on a wild, drunken merry-go-round, making him want to vomit. After a moment things steadied fractionally, and he rolled his eyes down to find he was lying on a white hospital bed.

How had he gotten here? He thought Dean was the sick one. Maybe he'd come down with whatever was ailing his brother. Maybe…

Black eyes. Huh?

His brain stuttered.

Why was it so hard to think?

He tried to move, but his limbs were heavy and uncoordinated. Plus, there was something tugging at his left hand when he lifted it, and it took a good minute for his misfiring brain to make the connection between the pole to his left, the bag of clear liquid hanging from it, and the tube running into his hand. What was it called? It was on the tip of his tongue. An eye-veeee…

IV. That was it. He pictured the letters in his mind and realized that they kind of looked like the roman numeral four. Maybe that was significant?

Shit, no, his brain was seriously messed up. Just how hard had he hit his head?

No, he hadn't hit his head. Chase had. Why had Chase hit him in the head?

Oh yeah.

Black eyes.

Shit.

Sam blinked again, trying once again to focus his thoughts. Damn he was screwed up. Wait, he'd just been pondering the significance of the IV in his arm for the past five minutes. Maybe that was… significant? Oh crap, that meant something was being pumped into his veins, probably something that would fuck up his mind to the point where he thought he was on drugs. Hold on. That made sense. He was on drugs. The IV was pumping him full of drugs. And the good kind, too.

Sam fumbled around, smacking at the IV line, trying to pull it out. The world tilted, and his hand kept missing. It didn't seem to want to listen to him. It was disobeying his brain, like in that movie with the guy with the hand that did whatever it wanted. Yeah. Well, at least Dr. House could push the whole drug theory again because Sam was on drugs. He was definitely on druuuuugs…

He smacked at the IV line again as his brain drifted farther away from him toward that alluring temptress called sleep. But no, hadn't he just been asleep? Crap.

He fumbled with the IV.

How long had he been unconscious?

* * *

Dean leaned back against his pillow, trying to suppress the ache in his body, when someone walked into his room and shut the blinds. When he turned his head , he saw handsome, boyish features and wavy blond hair.

"You? I knew it had to be someone around here. Leave it to a demon to pick the pretty doctor," Dean grumbled, throwing Chase a smirk.

"Knew I couldn't fool you for too long," Chase replied, not seeming perturbed that his cover had been blown. "Since Sam kept his lips zipped, maybe you could tell me why you didn't react properly to the virus?"

Dean shook his head. "Knew it. Right when House said Sam suggested looking for sulfur in the blood. You bastards are at it again."

"I'm amazed by your quick wit and keen intellect," Chase drawled dryly. "Seems a shame to let it go to waste, but at least you and Sam will get to go out together."

Fear spiked through Dean's stomach, overriding the burn in his chest. "Where is he?" he growled.

Chase's mouth quirked up in a grin as he approached, eyeing Dean's IV. "Hell, soon."

"You son of a—" But Dean was cut off when the door opened again and in stepped Dr. House, eyes darting between Chase and Dean with surprise. Chase turned around, distracted, and that's when Dean pulled a syringe out from under his blanket, stabbed it into Chase's arm, and depressed the plunger. Instantly, Chase writhed in his grip, letting out a strangled cry. His arm shook as a thin stream of steam escaped from the miniscule puncture wound left by the syringe when Dean pulled it out. He managed to wrench his arm free of Dean's grip, stumbled, regained his footing, and looked up at House, panting for breath.

"Don't just stand there, sedate him! He's injected me with poison, he's mental!" Chase barked.

Sitting up, Dean lifted the empty syringe triumphantly before chucking it down at the floor. "Actually it was holy water, you demonic bastard."

House's eyes widened fractionally, his jaw hanging slack, before his face hardened and set. Eyes now narrowed, lips pursed, he gave Dean an appraising look before returning his attention to Dr. Chase. "Think we should move him to psych?"

Chase gave him a look that said quite clearly, 'are you kidding me?' as Dean shouted, "I'm not crazy!" He shoved the covers off of his legs, preparing to bolt.

Waving his cane in Dean's direction, House ordered, "Grab him!"

The covers were off, he'd ripped the IV out of his hand—which was now spurting blood, great—and now Dean had managed to hop off the bed on the opposite side so that it lay between him and Chase, who was giving him a murderous glare. Dean had just managed to land on his feet when Chase leapt onto the bed to tackle him, reaching out his arms… and stopping.

A look of recognition crossed Chase's face as he knelt on the bed, arms outstretched but not passing the edge of the mattress. "What did you…" His voice trailed off as his eyes flicked across the clean ceiling and then down, peering over the edge of the bed. On the side where Dean stood, a curved line drawn in marker and rimmed with a grainy white substance poked out from underneath the bed. Chase sneered at him. "Well done. Devil's Trap. You didn't do that yourself, did you?"

"I had a little help," Dean sneered back, trying to hold himself up on his feet and starting to sweat. He glanced over at House. "Nice acting, by the way."

"I wasn't acting," House replied, eyeing Chase carefully. "If this didn't work I really was going to take you to psych."

Chase repositioned himself on the bed so that he was lounging now, hands behind his head, grinning at the both of them. "This was quite a leap of faith for you, House… trusting a patient like that. I didn't think you believed in any demons aside from your own."

"Well, you're right about that," House conceded, voice cool and gravelly, eyes hard and closed off. "Though I guess it is fitting, in a cruelly ironic way, that the one who got possessed was the former priest-wannabe."

"You know us demons. We're not without a sense of irony," Chase agreed with a sharp, bark-like laugh. "Like this. It's the third time these Winchesters have had me in a Devil's Trap. But it won't be the third time they exorcise me, I can tell you that." Chase shook his head. "You chuckleheads really thought a syringe of holy water and a black magic marker would do the trick?"

Dean paused, body flooding with ice. He stared at Chase, who blinked in his direction, black flooding his eyes like ink in water, a smug smirk curling up on his face. Dean fought to remain standing as his brain processed this new information. "Meg?"

"You didn't have to strain yourself. I was going to tell you. That is, if you ever decided to let me in on why my virus didn't work," Chase spat, obviously growing impatient on the matter.

"Oh, yeah," Dean grinned, trying to hide the fact that he was sweating, his body was flushed with heat, and his stomach was cramping. He pulled the top of his hospital gown down to reveal the spiky tattoo over his heart. "Wards off possession. Guess it fights off demonic viruses, too."

Chase's sneer grew sour. "Fantastic. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to foil your amazing plan." Chase closed his eyes, tilting his head forward until his chin nearly met his chest; he squeezed his hands into fists and started chanting in Latin, "_Spiritus in mundus un glorum suarum umitite palatum iram domine_…" He stopped, raising his head and opening his pitch-black eyes. His face twitched in confusion and annoyance.

"Oh yeah, that's right," Dean spoke up, as though he had just remembered (though he had, of course, anticipated this—just not the fact that it would, once again, be Meg). "See, I remembered that little stunt you pulled last time, so I ringed the trap with salt. You can't break that with your little spell, can you?"

Chase was breathing heavily now, usually perfect hair messy and out of place as he tossed his head to glare at Dean. "What are you going to do now?" he growled, mouth curled down in an ugly scowl. "I don't see a little book of exorcism rituals. And I know that Dean—the brawn of the Winchester dream team—doesn't have any memorized…"

Dean smirked. "That's where you're wrong." He glanced over at House, who was still watching, mesmerized, detached from the scene as though he were watching it on TV. Dean shook his head, took a breath to ease the nausea growing in his stomach, and began: "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio…_" His voice trailed off as he squeezed his eyes shut against a throbbing headache. Chase was panting on the bed, teeth set and bared in a grimace. Dean shook his head and started again. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis…_" But before he could continue his stomach turned over and squeezed, and a river of yellow bile and red blood gushed from his mouth. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, nearly falling to his knees before House grabbed him around the shoulders and hoisted him back onto his feet. They were bare. The floor was cold. Actually, he felt cold all over. He was shivering.

Chase laughed loudly from the bed. "Oops. Bit ill, are we?"

"You idiot," House growled in his ear. "You didn't _actually_ have to rip out the IV."

The world was swimming, dancing in and out of focus. He leaned against House, who was leaning against his cane. He couldn't even think of a witty retort for House's complaint.

"_Exorcizamus te… omnis… exorcizamus…_ ahhhhh shit," Dean groaned, throwing out a hand to steady himself and pressing it against the wall. His head was pounding ferociously, his stomach was churning and bubbling like a boiling soup, and the burning in his chest had intensified like a stream of sunlight focused with a magnifying glass. Reality was swimming away, and he found himself sliding down the wall, House unable to keep him standing any longer. He heard the older man speaking to him but the words were distant and out of focus, warbling in and out like a badly tuned radio station, mingling with the maniacal laughter coming from the bed. It was so much easier to succumb to the darkness, which would take away the pain. "_Exorci… zamus_…" he groaned as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he lost consciousness.

* * *

House was alone in his patient's hospital room with a demon that looked like Robert Chase.

It was shaping up to be a very unusual day.

And, to top it off, his patient was now passed out on the floor.

"So tell me, what exactly are you planning on telling everyone when someone arrives looking for you? That… I'm a demon, and you're holding me hostage on the bed while your patient dies at your feet? Come on. Who'll believe that?" Chase blinked and the black dissolved from his eyes. He looked just like the normal Chase. Without the black-eyed reminder, who _would_ believe a word House said? He had enough trouble convincing people to go along with his mad scientist schemes as it was.

"Here's what's going to happen," Chase continued, sitting up and leaning forward. "If you decide to leave me here until someone comes looking, I'll tell them you're mentally unstable, and they'll take you up to psych. Then I'll get out of this trap, kill Dean—or William Gibbons, as you know him—and blame it on you. Everyone will find out you poisoned both your patient _and_ his brother. You'll lose your medical license. And then maybe one day I'll come back to finish destroying your life.

"Option two," he continued, and House found his heart pounding as the young man spoke, wondering if there was a safe way out of this. "You break the trap—all you have to do is break the line of salt, I'll take it from there. I'll cure Dean of his little virus, you'll get the credit for once again miraculously saving the day, and I'll go away, get out of your hair forever."

Option two seemed very appealing. House took a deep breath and released it, glancing down at Billy—Dean—whatever his name was, still slumped against the wall, blood dripping down his chin and onto the hospital gown, smearing and streaking across the floor around him. He realized there was some on his sneaker as well. Gross.

When he looked up, Chase was watching him, but not with anything like malice. He looked like… Chase. It was much harder to believe that there was a demon in there when he looked like this (ignoring the fact that he was still trying to wrap his mind around that one while simultaneously forcing himself not to think about; this was a topic for later introspection over copious amounts of alcohol).

"So? What's it going to be?"

House frowned, his right leg beginning to ache with the strain of standing. "Are you going to kill him when he's released from the hospital?"

A slow grin rose on Chase's face, and it didn't suit him at all. It made him look manic—_insane_. "It shouldn't bother you what I do. Either way you'll probably never see them again."

It was tempting. It was extremely tempting.

But—

"No."

Chase's smile fell. "No?"

House shook his head. "No."

The conversation went no further, for at that moment, the door crashed open, and in stumbled Sam, who was blinking and lumbering around as though he had just gotten smashed at the nearest bar. "What the hell's the matter with you?" House asked, but Sam ignored him, instead glancing down at his brother and steadying himself against the wall—(what was it with these two and balance issues lately?)—before beginning to recite what Dean had started.

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio, et secta diabólica…_"

Chase grunted and groaned, panting, sweating. His eyes had once more turned coal-black, and his face was screwed up in a mask of pain. House looked on, fascinated, as he threw his head back against the pillow, teeth clenched, muscles straining in his neck.

"_Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis._ _Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt…_"

A horrible wail rose from Chase's lips as he thrashed his head from side to side, breath wheezing in and out, hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. "I'm going to burn this hospital to the ground," he growled, voice gravelly with agony. "I'm going to kill every last one of you…"

"_Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, domine. __Ut ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos. __Dominicos sanctae ecclesiae. Terogamus audi nos._"

Chase's voice broke on a scream as he threw his head back, opening his mouth for a pillar of black smoke to billow out, rising and rising in the hospital room before streaking out the window and into the dark night sky. The scream cut off as Chase fell back, previously tensed muscles now relaxed. He blinked slowly, lethargically, before looking around and apparently discovering with some surprise that he was lying on a hospital bed.

House took inventory.

Billy—Dean—was still breathing, albeit unconscious. Check.

Chase was still panting on the bed and looking utterly bewildered, but was otherwise uninjured. Check.

Sam had one hand pressed against the wall and was blinking and shaking his head as though to clear a fog, but at least he was standing. Check.

Chase broke the silence with a sheepish question. "Did we get a diagnosis?"

As for House… he was still standing, leaning against his cane, the ache in his right leg growing more insistent. Ignoring Chase, he pulled out his Vicodin and popped one into his mouth, swallowing the bitter pill.

He dropped the bottle back into his pocket. Check.

* * *

"I knew _somebody_ had to be on drugs," House murmured smugly.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. You also said we were liars."

"And I was right about that, too."

Sam shook his head. "Okay, look, I'm fine, really. This isn't necessary." He shifted against the pillow at his back, feeling ridiculous sitting in the hospital bed that had been wheeled into Dean's room. He glanced from the bandage over the wound where he'd pulled out Chase's—_Meg's_—IV to the new IV that was currently flushing the drugs from his body.

"Quit whining," House admonished as he checked the bag.

Shaking his head, Sam looked over at Dean, whose bed was only a few feet from his own. He was still unconscious but had a new IV as well. "So… what's that concoction you put in his IV bag?" Sam asked, wishing that he hadn't been so out of it during House's epiphany and hasty explanation for Dean's cure.

"It's a lovely cocktail of Interferon—which fights viral infections—and holy water, which I pilfered from the chapel downstairs," House explained, limping over to check Dean's vitals. "Hopefully, it'll do the trick. The Interferon should wipe out the virus part, and the holy water should get rid of the other side of the equation."

"Speaking of which," Sam began, knowing that he'd have to cross this bridge sooner or later. "I've seen a lot of people deal with the knowledge of what's really out there. And I've seen a lot of bad reactions. You seem to be… dismissing the fact that you just found out that demons are real."

House stiffened. "So?"

"So… I just want to make sure you're holding up okay," Sam continued, knowing that House probably hated when people asked him if he was okay. He was just one of those guys, like Dean. Actually, they had a lot of similarities. Sam frowned and hoped that his brother wouldn't grow up to be a caustic old codger with a cane.

He wasn't surprised by the answer that House gave. "If I can believe that Dr. Cuddy's breasts are real, then I can believe anything."

Sam didn't know who Dr. Cuddy was, but it sounded like something Dean would say, and he couldn't stop himself from laughing. He sobered up when he pondered that thought, and decided that when Dean got better, they'd have to get out of there fast. Dean and House as allies rather than rivals could only mean disaster.

"Is Dr. Chase going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine," House dismissed. "He's probably at home by now, sleeping. Like I should be. It is now—" He glanced down at his watch. "—one o'clock in the morning. Good God, you people are exhausting. I'm going to my office to catch a few hours of sleep. No point going home now. If you need anything… don't bother me." He turned then and limped out of the room, flicking off the light as he went out the door. He hesitated in the doorway, looking back, but Sam couldn't make out the expression on his face in the dark. Then he was gone.

Content, for now, that things would be all right, Sam closed his eyes and let himself drift away.

* * *

"Morning," greeted Foreman, somewhat indifferently, as he walked into the conference room.

Cameron followed shortly thereafter, looking well-rested. However, her "Morning" was slowed by the concern that stitched her eyebrows together at sight of House, who knew that he looked even more rumpled and unkempt than usual. He also probably looked more caffeinated than usual, already pouring another mug of coffee down his throat as he stood next to the table.

Last to arrive was Chase, who House, frankly, hadn't expected to see at all today. He walked in with his head down, hair in his eyes; he spared them all a quick glance, muttered, "Morning," to his shoes, and sat down.

"How's the patient?" Cameron asked, turning back to House. He finished downing his coffee, feeling a buzz of energy already driving through his tired body, and put the mug down.

Before he could respond, Wilson walked past, stopped, looked into the room, and walked in. "How's the patient?"

"The world is a broken record," House mused philosophically to Wilson's puzzled expression. "We found out last night that he has a virus. Started him on Interferon. He'll be fine."

Wilson frowned. "Isn't that what you were wearing yesterday?"

House glanced down at his wrinkled attire. "Yep."

"Did you sleep here?"

House didn't respond. Cameron and Foreman clearly wanted to know what had happened last night, for as soon as he mentioned the virus, their heads had perked up, and they were both now looking at him with anticipation. But House found his eyes gravitating to Chase, who returned his gaze. "The patients will be fine," House repeated slowly, enunciating it so that Chase would stop looking like an abused kitten.

Wilson put his hands on his hips, narrowing his eyes. "Did I miss something here?"

A small smile quirked up on Chase's face. House started filling his mug with yet another cup of coffee. Tonight he could think about what had happened. Tonight was a good night to get drunk.

"Nope. Just another boring day."

* * *

Dean felt… great.

He no longer wanted to vomit everything that went into his mouth (which was a great relief to the lover of food), his fever was gone, his muscles no longer randomly ached, and the burning around his tattoo had subsided. He smiled at Dr. Cameron after she removed the IV and told him that he was all better.

"So… maybe I should get your number. You know, if this little virus thing ever comes back for round two…"

Cameron smiled wryly. It was just a game. Dean knew that he wouldn't call her; he knew that Cameron knew that he wouldn't call her. Still, he guessed that she was a player of that game, and he was proven correct when she wrote something on a scrap of paper and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, which were folded on the chair next to his bed.

"Take care," she said before leaving the room. When Sam walked in with two cups of coffee, Dean told him he'd lost his necklace and asked him to check for it in the pocket of his jeans. Sam dug around, produced the paper, and frowned down at it.

"'Not a chance'?" Sam read off the paper.

Dean's smirk slid off his face. "What?"

Sam laughed and threw Dean's clothes at him, which smacked him in the face before sliding to his lap.

Dean got dressed, and they were all set to go when House and Chase walked into the room. Well, Chase walked; House… yeah, Dean couldn't come up with a good way to describe it. House took wide, limping strides, his entire body swaying with the movement of the cane.

"Chase has something he'd like to say," House told them without preamble, lifting his cane and prodding Chase's back with the rubber tip.

The Australian doctor threw a scowl over his shoulder at him before turning around and muttering to his shoes, "Sorry I got possessed and tried to kill you."

Dean grinned at Sam, who looked exasperated. "It wasn't you," Sam told him gently.

"Good. Now I want you to go to the board and write 'I will not get possessed and try to kill my patients' six hundred and sixty-six times," House ordered, tapping Chase's arm with his cane. Chase huffed out a laugh, slapped the cane away from him, and left the room. Then House turned to Sam and Dean. "Okay, I'm not going to officially discharge you. You two are going to mysteriously disappear without my knowledge. And when Dr. Cuddy, the hospital administrator, comes to tell me that your insurance is a fraud, I'm going to pretend to be shocked and appalled."

House turned around to leave, pushing open the door. He stopped halfway through, turning back to Dean. "And keep a low profile on your way out. Use that tunnel you dug from the basement if you have to, McQueen."

Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean nodded. House vanished into the bustling hallway.

"Man, I'm ready to get out of here. Hit the road. We should start looking for a case," Dean suggested.

Sam snorted. "Says the guy who just got over a demonic virus from hell." He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, taking a long gulp from his coffee. Dean shrugged, dismissing his brother's sarcasm. Nothing kept them from the hunt.

"You hungry?" Dean asked as he walked to the door, holding it open for Sam. "Because I'm starving. I could really go for a cheeseburger."

* * *

The next time House was hiding from Cuddy in the morgue, avoiding clinic duty, he spotted a Styrofoam cup which, upon further inspection, proved to be filled with a chocolate milkshake. He lifted it to his face, sniffed it, and considered drinking it. Then he remembered where it came from, thought better of it, and threw it in the trash.

Some things were better left alone.

**The End**


	4. Deleted Scene

A/N: _I've never posted 'deleted scenes' for a fic before, but I kind of liked this one, so I thought I'd stick it here just for kicks. It's supposed to come right after Cameron and Foreman confront House on his way to the chapel, telling him about the sulfur in the blood. Unfortunately, after writing it, I realized that it was a bit too OOC for both House and Cuddy, much as I tried to make it work (and much as I enjoyed writing the snark), and figured the fic would be better off without it in the end._

* * *

He continued on, leaving Foreman and Cameron behind to probably gossip about his current mental state, and was about to slip into his own reverie about what he was even thinking listening to a pair of lying delinquents when he was interrupted yet again, this time by a pair of Jewish boobs on high heels. Well, it wasn't the boobs, really, that interrupted him, but they sure provided a sufficient distraction.

"House!" Cuddy shouted, stomping over to him, her heels clacking loudly on the floor. House stopped, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and leaned on his cane. "I've been trying to get a hold of you for two hours. Did you turn your pager off?"

"Oops," he replied with a shrug.

Cuddy sighed. "Your patient doesn't have valid insurance."

"Of course he does," House replied, knowing even as he said it that it probably wasn't true.

Shaking her head, Cuddy explained, "The information he gave was fake. I'm not entirely sure he even gave a real name."

"Okie-dokie. Should I stop treating him, kick him out onto the street, and let him die?" he suggested, irritation growing at both Cuddy for adding another problem to the mix and William Gibbons, or whoever the hell he really was, for putting him in this ridiculous situation. And he supposed he was irritated with Wilson, too, for being too busy with his balding cancer kids to lend a hand, and Chase, who had vanished to check the burger for poison and hadn't returned. And he was a little irritated with himself, too, for letting everything get complicated. Much as he liked the puzzle, this was more like a game of Twister that assumed you had thirteen free limbs to spare. House didn't even have the standard four.

Cuddy still hadn't responded. She looked unsure, weary, and exasperated. He knew she was in a difficult position; he just didn't really care.

"Tell you what," he offered. "I'm going to keep treating my patient because, well, he seems like a nice enough guy and it would make me look bad if I let him die. And you're going to forget to inform me about this little development until after we're sure he's not going to die. Kay?"

Cuddy sighed, watching him critically. "You're really pushing it, House."

"And in the future you're not going to bother me with irrelevant information when I'm in the middle of trying to save someone's life," House continued.

"House!" she shouted. "That's enough. We don't make exceptions. If someone doesn't have the insurance, the hospital gets no money. Do you understand? Do you know how much money you've cost me already? You might as well just turn the entire hospital into a free clinic!"

"Let it slide for me. As a favor," House requested, voice gentler. "Please."

Cuddy looked as though she were still trying to rein in her anger. "A favor? You just don't want to drop the puzzle halfway through, before you've figured it out." House didn't say anything. He hoped that his silence would be enough for her to calm down and give him his freedom to work, like usual. Cuddy shook her head, and he could tell that she was about to relent. But before he could send up a cheer of victory, she snapped, "Fine. But I'm adding twenty extra hours of clinic duty to your schedule. Finish them by the end of the month. And if you don't get me the correct insurance when this guy's better, you're paying for all of his expenses out of your own pocket."

House decided it was time to bargain. "Ten hours."

Cuddy put her hands on her hips and glowered at him. "Twenty."

"Fifteen."

"Twenty."

"Seventeen."

"I'm going to start going up if you keep arguing," Cuddy snapped. "Twenty."

Then she turned and walked away, heels clacking on the linoleum floor. House closed his eyes, not quite sure that this had been worth the extra clinic hours.

Oh well. Snapping his eyes open, he continued on towards the chapel, an empty syringe tapping against the rattling bottle of Vicodin in his pocket. Too bad about the extra hours.

But he could always pawn them off on Wilson.


End file.
